


Rogue Agent

by NothingToDismay



Category: homebrew - Fandom
Genre: Explicit Language, Original Character(s), Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-27
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:22:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21583738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NothingToDismay/pseuds/NothingToDismay
Kudos: 1





	1. Chapter 1

I double-checked my new handler’s name and office number as I walked up the stairs. Officer Dima - 315. Butterflies jumped in my stomach and I tried not to think about all the ways the meeting could go wrong as I re-adjust my suit for the hundredth time. Meeting a new commander always rattled me, be it in the Army or CIA. You could get a relatively laid-back and friendly officer, like my last handler, Officer Teach, or you could get someone who never mentally left boot camp. In the brief over-the-phone exchanges I had with Dima, he definitely seemed the latter - curt, and he spoke with precision. Did little more than confirm my name, rank, and the fact that I had to meet with him today at 12 sharp. No condolences for the loss of Teach. 

I find the office and check my watch. Five before noon. Thank God I’m early. I hesitantly knock on the dark wooden door, and a crackle from a speaker next to the handle makes me jump. 

“Swipe your badge.” A scanner underneath the speaker lit up as I pressed my security badge to it. I never saw a scanner on an individual officer’s door before. None of the other doors on this floor have them. Dima’s either not an ordinary officer or inclined to be paranoid. A second after I press my badge to the scanner the door lock clicks and I enter Dima’s office, instantly hit with a blast of cold air. My nervousness only increases when I see that Officer Dima is, in fact, a massive polar bear. Easily several times my weight and eye level with me while he sits at his desk. Hiding my apprehension, I stride forward to his desk and place my file in front of him. Dima doesn’t even glance at me while he types away at his computer. I glance at a clock on the wall - four minutes before noon. Assuming the position of attention, I wait for Dima to speak, my tail wrapping around my leg in a vain attempt to warm up. 

The polar bear doesn’t acknowledge my presence the entire four minutes until the meeting. During that time, which seems like hours, I observe the layout of the office. It’s bare. No posters. Not even the crappy motivational ones that managers love to throw around office buildings. The only feature is an analog clock, remarkable only by its plainess. On his desk there lies his computer, name plate, keyboard, and a rubber band ball resting against a pencil cup. Despite a pretty well-maintained physique, dark circles and lines around his eyes betray his age. Dima’s the Old Breed. 

The instant the minute hand starts the hour, Dima turns his computer off and faces me, eyes burning a hole into mine. 

“State your name and rank.” 

“Special Agent Robin Attano.” 

“Age?” 

“Twenty-eight.”

“Background?” 

“Six years in the United States Army, four years in the CIA.” 

Dima finally breaks his unblinking stare to open up my file and I don’t know whether to breathe a sigh of relief or prepare to get chewed out. Dima’s face is an emotionless mask as he reads my file, whether to verify the information I told him or something else, I have no idea. After another long minute my file is closed and placed into a desk drawer. 

“Your specialty is assassinations?” 

“Yes, sir.” I speak as clearly as I can, staving off the chatter I feel growing as my fur starts to stand up. I swear to God, if I leave this office looking like a fluffball I’m going to hit someone.

“Tell me more.” Dima’s question catches me off-guard. Tell him more about… what? Assassinations? Me? This minimalistic bullshit is starting to wear on my nerves. 

“All of my information is in my file, sir.” 

“According to a past agent who does not share my criteria. Tell me, from your own point of view, why you are a good assassin.” I bite back a remark aimed at Dima. That was a low blow. Teach’s standards weren’t low, she just knew how to foster Agents. Not break them down. Instead of getting myself kicked out of Dima’s office, I give a brief list of my qualifications. 

“I can fluently speak Russian and English, and I know conversational Arabic. I have undergone CIA-mandated Agent training and graduated top of my class. I am proficient with many weapon systems and achieved the ‘Expert’ classification with rifles in the Army, as well as graduating from Ranger school. I know customs and cultures in most countries and know how to avoid detection and suspicion, and I have yet to fail a mission. Is that good enough?” 

The last sentence slips out before I can stop it. Dima’s ear flicks back and his eyebrows draw closer and I silently kick myself. 

“It’s adequate,” Dima growls as he opens up a drawer and withdraws a manila envelope marked as top secret. “I have an assignment for you. Read it. Memorize it. Then destroy it. Departure is in thirty-six hours. Failure will result in termination of your employment-” 

“Whoa, what?” I completely break bearing, but termination for mission failure isn’t standard practice. “That’s not legal. Sometimes missions just can’t-” 

“None of what you do is legal, Agent Attano,” Dima loudly interrupts, anger creeping into his voice. “So I suggest, for your benefit, that you complete the mission and don’t make me any angrier than I already am. Report back here at the designated time. You’re dismissed.” I turn on my heel and stride out, mission gripped in my hand. I gotta put in for a transfer as soon as I’m back home. Angrily muttering, I open up the envelope and begin to read it through. 

Case File 6AF5T  
-Target: Lucky DeWitt, founder and CEO of Skorpion Technologies.  
-Appearance: White tiger, black stripes. Slim build. Often dyes hair red. One gauge in each ear. 5’ 10”. Refer to attached picture for more detail.  
-Location: Los Angeles penthouse. See attached blueprints for details.  
-Security: Private security detail of varying ability and closed-circuit security cameras. Potentially more security features. Proceed with caution.  
-Offenses: Close ties to various paramilitary organizations worldwide. Possible funding of weapons research for said organizations. Drug manufacturing and supplying. Money laundering.Gun running. Accessory to murder. Felony murder. Murder. Conspiracy to assassinate Federal officials...

The list goes on and on, finally culminating with treason. It looks like Lucky DeWitt has been accused of damn near everything under the sun. Pictures show him with prominent mobsters the FBI’s been trying to build a case against. Vans bearing the company logo delivering shipments to warehouses in districts a high-profile tech company has no business going to. Another photo of a weapons exchange taken by UAV in a desert. Legally, Lucky has an army of lawyers, the money to fund numerous cleaning operations, and anyone below him in the chain of command would gladly serve life instead of snitch on their boss, so a trigger has to be pulled. Fair enough. I head downstairs to the armory as I skip down the page to read my method of infiltration and exfiltration.

-Infiltration: DeWitt is hosting a gala at his penthouse in honor of a successful financial year. We have provided you with false credentials to enter the gala. After that, how you eliminate DeWitt is up to your discretion. Be aware that this event will be under heavy guard.  
-Exfiltration: Reach the ground floor of the building and move to the pawn shop two kilometers to the north. Agents inside will recover you and return you here.  
The safety of civilians and federal servicemen and women alike rest on the success of this mission. Best of luck, Agent Attano. 

I reach the armory and pass a slip housed in the file to the tired man working the counter, who silently takes it and hands me a white tuxedo, false credentials, and a holster with a tiny Walther PPK and silencer, excellent for concealability and looks more slick than the standard-issue Glock. I smile to myself at using an old James Bond gun for a mission, dressed in a suit and going to a gala. Every Agent’s dream. I check my time and head up to the lounge to get a bite to eat and some shuteye before flying out to Las Vegas.


	2. The Gala

I pull back the slide on my Walther. Bullet in the chamber. Parts oiled and clean. Everything in order. I must have disassembled and reassembled this gun a dozen times before the helicopter picked me up and took me to the airport. From there it was a plane to Los Angeles and finally a car to drive me to Lucky DeWitt’s penthouse. 

In the car’s driver's seat is a rookie agent who’s job couldn’t be more simple: drive, wait for me to kill DeWitt, and drive away. Riding shotgun is Agent Frond, who’s quizzing me on the persona I’ll be adopting once I arrive at Lucky’s building. A tall Border Collie, Frond is excellent at working with new recruits, providing a good mix of reassurance and discipline to keep them on track. He was in the same training group as me, and it was clear from the start he would eventually be an instructor. 

As I check all my gear for the thousandth time, Frond turns around with a notepad and looks right at me. 

“Okay. Attano, one last time. What’s your name?” 

“Andrei Petrov,” I reply through a thick Russian accent. 

“Background?”

“I inherited a seat in my father’s oil company. I manage territory acquisition, but I’m too stupid to realize that all I really do is take up space in daddy’s company.” Frond confirms the information on his notepad, reading by the streetlights in the LA night. 

“Good. I like the angle, those are the type of people DeWitt seems to surround himself with. Stop fucking with your gun, it’s fine. I checked it when you got off the plane. What’s your personality?” 

“Good-natured but naive and arrogant. I want to flaunt my wealth by buying my good friends at this party plenty of drinks and drugs.” I tuck my pistol into the chest holster under my shirt and tuxedo cummerbund. The tight holster, along with the specialty lead-lined cummerbund designed to press the holster into my fur and prevent X-rays from seeing it, is far from comfortable, but I’d much prefer this operation with with a gun than without. 

“How do you plan to take out DeWitt?”

“Wait until he enters a restroom. Follow him in, eliminate him in a stall to avoid suspicion. I can also use my gun to coerce him inside a stall. Failing those, I can just shoot him in the open and try an escape from there. Use that only as a last resort. After that, I meet you at the pawn shop.” 

“Beautiful.” Frond turns back around to face the road and directs the rookie to the building where DeWitt is hosting his gala. “If you’re not at the pawn shop within six hours, you’re on your own. For the love of God, don’t screw this up.” We pull up in front of the building and I get out, reflexively straightening my white tux and lightly touching my pockets to confirm that I have everything. Taking a deep breath, I close my door and stride confidently into the luxury apartment building, loudly demanding that I be shown to the penthouse. 

* * *

The elevator ride up is just me, the operator, and the ornate marble and gold decorations inside. I’m a good thirty minutes late, so the party should be in full swing by now. Fashionably late and boisterous, that’s how Andrei Petrov lives. I focus on my breathing and hiding the fact that I do not like this operation. 

I’m nervous. Very nervous. These public assassinations never sat well with me. Too many variables. I much prefer to slip in and out in the dead of night, take them out while they’re sleeping. But you can’t choose where or when your target will be available, so sometimes you have to improvise. I hate improvising. God damn, will this elevator hurry?

We finally reach the penthouse and the doors open, only to be immediately greeted by armed security in a separate foyer, complete with three armed guards and a metal detection wand. One big guy pulls me out and begins asking me for identification. I slap their hands off my jacket and curse them in Russian. 

“Keep your hands off the tux, eh? It’s Armani, I just had it fitted. Blyat, you’ve creased-“

“Your name, sir,” the guard asks loudly. “I need your name now or I’ll have to put you back on the elevator.”

“My name’s Andrei Petrov. Read it for yourself.” I thrust my Russian passport in the guard’s face. He grabs it, annoyed, and reads it, flipping through to make sure it’s legit. When he’s done I snatch it from his hand and stuff it in my tux, muttering under my breath. The guard presses his earpiece. 

“Petrov’s arrived. No, I’m searching him now, then I can let him through.” The guard stiffens suddenly. “Sir, he might have…no. No, it checked out…fine.” The guard glares at me. “DeWitt’s anxious to see you, so you get to skip the search. Go on through.” My heart jumps in my throat, but I cover it with a smile. Fuck me, is Andrei a real person? WAS he a real person?! Dima never mentioned this. 

“Finally!” I push past them and control my fear as I enter a new headspace. Agent Attano. One of the CIA’s deadliest operatives. No mission is too dangerous. Wearing a confident smile and walking with a swagger, I enter the gala proper and try to keep my shock from showing as I’m assaulted with the definition of extravagance. 

A wide open penthouse made of polished tan marble and lush white carpet is what I notice first. Then the guests themselves, images of modern nobility dressed in outfits worth more than my annual salary, sipping wine and champagne that’s probably a few decades old but tastes no different than what you’d find in a box on sale at the corner store. They’re all laughing and drinking, sampling the little hors d'oeuvres being carried around on trays by royal blue-clad servers. Floor-to-ceiling windows provide a magnificent view of the city, and the art pieces on the walls range from tasteful still life to modern pieces, every one of which has a little audience discussing it. Orchestral music floats from somewhere, but it’s hard to see the source through the crowd.

Then there’s the man of the hour: Lucky DeWitt himself. He’s in the middle of it all, and his crimson tuxedo is absolutely striking. He’s talking and laughing with a group of his guests, leaning on a black cane and not five feet from two armed bodyguards in similar clothing. Strange. The report never mentioned a cane. Must have been a recent injury. Ignoring everything and everyone, I stride towards Lucky. As soon as I catch the tiger’s eye, he excuses himself. 

“My friends, I will be right back, an old acquaintance of mine has just arrived and I wish to greet him properly.” Turning on his heel, Lucky walks over, absolutely beaming. “Andrei! It’s been too long. How’ve you been?” A slight southern drawl trickles into his speech, just enough to notice it. 

“Lucky, my dear friend, how are you?” I go for a handshake but Lucky opts for a full hug, his arms wrapping around me with surprising strength. Fear at him feeling the gun is my first emotion, followed up shortly by disgust at this living stain hugging me. With what he’s done he doesn’t deserve any more than a bullet, much less a penthouse and swanky friends. But I return the hug and pull away quickly. Lucky holds me still, looking at me carefully. His gray eyes seem to pierce my soul as he talks. 

“You look different, but I can’t place it. Did you dye your ears? Whiten your teeth? Or - no! You took out your earring! Oh, Andrei, it looked so good on you. Ah well, life goes on. Tell me: how goes it in your father’s company?” When I get back to Dima’s office I am going to kick his ASS for not giving me the proper intelligence. Andrei being Lucky’s friend? How do you miss that? At least the Tiger seems convinced so far. 

“It goes well, Lucky! I’ve obtained two new territories in Siberia, and we’re set to overtake another company by March. All thanks to my negotiating, of course.” 

“Always skilled at that, you were. Now I won’t hold you any longer for now. Talk, eat, drink, but hang around. Before you leave tonight I’d like to show you something.” 

“I will be excitedly awaiting you then!” I turn my head and loudly call for a waiter, breaking off from Lucky. 

I thank my lucky stars that I’m apparently a carbon copy of Andrei Petrov. I snag a chalice of water from a waiter and drink it slowly to calm my nerves. All I have to do now is kill time. There’s music, people to chat with, and food. Should be a breeze. Keeping one eye on my watch, I head into the crowd.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter is just a day or so behind, I just wanted to get this portion out while I put the finishing touches on the next part. I hope y'all day a merry Christmas!


	3. Chekhov's Gun

The next hour passes with me making conversation with the party guests, all rich and affluent. Most discuss the house or the Skorpion company, and almost all of them seem to want to get as far away from Andrei as possible whenever I open my fat mouth. After a while I start looking around for Lucky to see if I can goad this along. When I eventually find him by the windows pointing out features of the city to guests, he sees me approaching and excuses himself once again, coming to meet me halfway. 

“Couldn’t wait, could you?”

“Nyet. The suspense is killing me! What do you have, you old svoloch?” I’m being a bit louder now and swaying a bit, trying to appear drunk. 

“Alright, I’ll show you. Really quickly, before my guests notice my absence.” 

“Yes, quickly!” We move through the crowd, Lucky greeting people as he walks. We go to a side door leading into a small office and Lucky waves his bodyguards off when they try to follow. “Bah, we’ll be fine. You two watch the crowd, make sure no one tries to make off with my silverware. Close the door behind yourself, Andrei.” I do as Lucky asks. By Christ, this was easy. A quick neck snap, hide the body under the desk, and get out. 

“So, what is it you wanted to show me?” I ask, turning around as Lucky sits down behind his desk, cane on the desk, and starts fiddling with drawers. I take a step towards him, but he holds up a hand to stop me. 

“Hold on, I’ve almost found it. I don’t want you spoiling the surprise for yourself.” I nod and smile. “So, what have you been up to recently? Besides hostile takeover and business deals?” 

“Oh, you know. Hunting. Women. Vodka! Ha ha!” My trigger finger is itching, but if I’m patient I won’t have to risk a gunshot. Too many people are nearby for a quick escape if they hear. Lucky finally finds what he’s looking for - a picture - and slides it across the desk to me. I pick it up and take a look. 

It’s Lucky and a sable. The sable’s got brown fur, earrings, and a wide smile on his face. They’re on a sailboat together, dressed for warm weather and tending to the ropes. In the corner of the picture is a date - July 13, 2024. Almost two years ago. 

“Handsome, isn’t he?” Lucky asks, watching me, yet a million miles away. Quite a charmer. Smart as a whip. Taught me a lot about the world. Like how important it is to be kind. To recognize what you’ve been offered and how to improve the world with it.” I stiffen up again. This fucker. The nerve of this arms-dealing, murdering, treasonous son of a bitch. I fake a smile and toss the photo back to DeWitt. 

“Who was this oh-so fascinating man?” I ask, just trying to hurry this along. 

“Andrei Petrov.” 

Lucky violently yanks his cane apart and the handle becomes the grip of a pistol as most of the cane clatters against the floor and the barrel of a gun is pointed right at my chest. My hand dives into my shirt and my own pistol flies out of its hiding spot. All pretenses have been dropped and two enemies face each other, guns leveled. Lucky’s friendly demeanor has been replaced with the face of cold fury. The same face I’ve seen during combat countless times. This man will kill if tested. 

I don’t plan on giving him that opportunity. Without a word I squeeze my trigger and my hand tenses expecting the recoil-

And there is none. There’s a dry click. My blood freezes in my veins while a cold smile pulls Lucky’s lips apart. I pull the trigger again. Same result: not a god damned thing. 

“Performance issues, Agent Attano? Don’t worry. It’s perfectly natural.” The tiger laughs humorlessly. Lucky slowly stands up, taking all the time in the world. My mouth opens and closes, but for once in my life I am totally at a loss. He knows me. He knows my name. He knew my gun wouldn’t work. This son of a bitch knows everything. 

“How stupid does your agency think I am?” Lucky spits. “Did you really think I wouldn’t notice the fact that one of my best friends had been replaced? Or that I wouldn’t know about his assassination?” 

“I don’t know anything about that,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “I didn’t-“

“Shut your mouth before I screw it shut. Throw your gun down. Any sudden moves and so help me God I will end you.” I slowly lower my gun, mind racing for an escape plan. I don’t even want to complete the mission anymore. This is survival. 

I kneel down like I’m going to set my gun on the floor. As soon as I’m in position I quickly cock my arm back and whip my useless pistol at Lucky, my legs springing out from under me as I leap at the tiger. He curses and I hear a shot, the impact of a bullet ripping into my shoulder. 

I hit the ground as Lucky scrambles onto his table. I try to push myself up but my arm gives out. I don’t even feel pain, it’s just…dead. I look to try and find the wound, but all I see is a red-plumed syringe. I rip it out with my good arm, but it’s too late. The syringe is empty. I try to rise again but my body feels like it weighs a metric ton. Lucky lightly steps down and casually reassembles his cane before leaning down to talk to me. 

“You and I are going to have words later, Agent. Until then, do try to get some sleep.” DeWitt laughs and I watch him leave the office, the world going dark shortly after.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank y'all for reading! I'm not sure how long this is going to be initially, but when I finish I'll see if y'all want me to continue or not - I have it all planned out, so I can make it as long as you want. Thanks again!


End file.
